


Wonderfully Ludicrous

by JustMightBeAJellyfish



Series: Future Semi-Conditionally Modified Subinverted Plagal Past Subjunctive Intentional [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A deeply flawed one, BAMF Ginny Weasley, BAMF Harry Potter, BAMF Hermione Granger, BAMF Neville Longbottom, BAMF Ron Weasley, Black Hermione Granger, Canon-Typical Crack, Chronomancer Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy Gets A Redemption Arc, Dumbledore is a human, Healer Ron Weasley, Hufflepuff Hermione Granger, Hufflepuffs are not pushovers, Indian Harry Potter, Master of Death Harry Potter, Necromancer Harry Potter, Ravenclaw Harry Potter, Ravenclaws exist, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Slytherin Ron Weasley, Slytherins are people, Smart Ron Weasley, Time Travel, but a human, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2020-03-05 16:08:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18832048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustMightBeAJellyfish/pseuds/JustMightBeAJellyfish
Summary: Hindsight is NOT 20/20 and some of us (Harry Potter) are still blind and could really do with some help.





	1. The Sorting

Hermione leaned over the floor of Grimmauld’s basement and marked the last of her runes on the stone slabs. She stood up, observing the intricate runic circle that radiated magic. Counting the moons in her head, Hermione double checked the numbers. Jupiter was ascending, so yes her math checked out and her circle was even.

  
“Don’t worry,” reassured Harry. “Ron will be here to heal us.”

  
“I don’t want to heal you,” grumbled Ron.

  
“Besides,” he continued, “It looks perfect. Your circles are even perfect. Looks like all that time with the compass was worth it.”

  
Ron groaned. “No it wasn’t. My hand still trembles just thinking about circles.”

  
“I know, I know. I’m just worried,” said Hermione, chewing on the ends of her hair. It was a bad habit and Fleur would most likely scold her for it. With the baby on its way, the veela’s maternal instincts were at an all-time high. “If it’s even the slightest bit is off, the room could blow up again.”

  
Harry shrugged. A wide grin stretched across his face. “My last ritual blew up in my face, but I can speak to the dead! It’s weird, very guttural, but now Teddy can speak to Remus and Tonks whenever so there’s that. Also, it’s very similar to the lowland streaked tenrec, which I can also speak! Tenrec is at a much higher pitch but oddly enough they have a lot of overlapping words. Kinda weird how things work out.”

  
Ron sighed heavily and ignored the tenrec part. He could ponder that later, after Harry used it to get into trouble. “What,” he said, words slow and over pronounced, “did I say about doing rituals without me?”

  
“Er, nothing?” asked Harry. “You said experiments, not rituals and this is supposed to be safe! I found it in Salazar’s Library.”

  
Ron groaned and flopped to the ground. Hermione checked her circle one last time, and gestures to the boys as she bounced in excitement.  
“Okay, you can come in.”

  
Quickly, and with great care not to disturb Hermione’s chalking, they walked into the innermost circle; it was barely large enough to hold all three of them. They were all rather grateful that Ron was so skinny and that Harry was still small. Not that Harry would admit it. He hated being short. Hated it. At least Luna was smaller.

  
Hermione began to chant. The small golden scar on her right hand began to glow, golden spots popping up like gleaming freckles on her dark skin and quickly grew larger. Her eyes flashed gold as the spell came to a climax. The candles flickered; dust was stirred up and blown off of cabinets and old books. Harry sneezed. Hermione glared at him in annoyance, missing a beat. She went back to chanting, but the damage was done. The dust turned gold and started to spin around the circle.

  
Ron stared at him in disbelief. “Oh Merlin,” he said.

  
“Sorry,” said Harry below his breath.

  
Suddenly Hermione’s chanting slowed and the dust died down. Harry sneezed again, his body trembling with the force.

  
“Harry,” scolded Hermione, her voice higher than usual.

  
“Sorry,” Harry said, looking up at her and reading to get a verbal smackdown. He took a deep breath and gaped at her. “Merlin,” he whispered.

  
“Hermione, Harry,” Ron breathed out. “You're kids.”

  
Hermione’s hands went up to his face. Harry spun around to look at the tiny kids, all of whom were gaping at the castle they were in. Castle.

  
“Guys,” said Harry. “I think we’re at Hogwarts.”

  
“What,” sneered Draco, who was close enough to hear Harry’s words. “Can’t believe it? Are you like Longbottom, a step away from being a squib?”

  
Harry glared at him before his face broke into a grin.

  
“Oh Merlin,” said Ron.

  
Hermione on the other hand, matched Harry’s grin. “Oh no,” she said. “I’ve always known I had magic. I read Matilda a while ago and couldn’t help but try to mimic it. It was easy, once I figured out to focus. And of course, I never had to worry about not having magic either. My parents would love me either way.”

  
“Hermione,” said Harry slowly, eyes widening in mock surprise. “Malfoy’s parents would love him either way too. I mean, it’s not like they’re bigots.”

  
“Hermione, Harry,” hissed Ron. “He is eleven.”

  
The trio looked over at Draco, who had a look of forced indifference.

  
“Fuck,” said Hermione.

  
“Look, we’re sorry,” apologized Harry.

  
“I’m sure you parents do love you,” said Hermione.

  
“And even if they don’t,” said Harry reasonably, “somebody has to. Besides, nobody has loved me besides my parents.”

  
“Oh yeah,” grimaced Ron. “The Dursleys.”

  
Hermione looked at Harry critically. “You know, you’re very small.”

  
Harry’s wand shot to his hand and he gripped it. “I will turn your hair yellow.”

  
Hermione scowled. “I hate yellow,” she said vehemently. “Gold too. And green: bright, acid green.”

  
“Like my eyes,” offered Harry.

  
“No,” said Hermione. “Your eyes are more alive. An emerald color. They’re pretty”

  
Ron smirked. “And as green as a freshly picked toad.”

  
When McGonagall walked in, Harry Potter was choking on his laughter, Draco Malfoy looked thoroughly bewildered, Ron Weasley had a look of smug satisfaction, and Hermione Granger, the promising muggleborn she had lead through Diagon Alley, was looking into thin air like she had a puzzle she couldn’t wait to tear apart and figure out. She had seen looks like that. When the marauders had walked in, it was the same: eager anticipation and determination.

  
The first years followed McGonagall and lined up as they waited to be called off. There were frantic whispers when all they could see was an old hat. They were staring at it as if it were rabid.

  
“A hat?” came a tentative whisper.

  
A rip in The Hat’s brim opened and it began to sing. Somehow it sounded like rocks grating together mixed with the clear pitch of a well tuned violin. It was cacophonous and listening would give anyone a headache as they tried to comprehend how something could be tuneless and rhythmic.

  
“I think the Hat would be rather good at Gregorian chants,” said Harry, lost in thought.

  
“I think you’re insane,” muttered Ron. “Anyways, the spell was messed up and we’re kids, right? Went back into our younger bodies?” said Ron, lowering his voice so they wouldn’t be heard over the hat’s song.

  
“I think so,” said Hermione under her breath. “I’m a chronomancer. I deal with time, not parallel universes.”

  
“Parallel universes would be bad,” agreed Harry. “I can barely remember this past. A different one would be impossible. What about our younger selves? A soul fusion, maybe. And speaking of souls and onto more important topics, how did they animate the Hat? A soul? A fake soul? A real soul?”

  
“There’s definitely an accumulation of magic that promotes sentience,” replied Hermione.

  
“Yeah,” said Ron, “but it makes decisions, you know? That’s more than just magically accumulated based sentience.”

  
Hermione nodded slowly. “Yes, well, it is some of it.”

  
“We never said it wasn’t,” pointed out Harry. “Just that it wasn’t all of it.”

  
“I suppose,” said Hermione thoughtfully. “It would make an interesting project.”

  
“Or we could just ask the Hat,” offered Ron.

  
They three students stared at it for a while. Susan Bones got into Hufflepuff and Seamus Finnegan went to Gryffindor and Goyle was surprisingly a hatstall before being sent off to Slytherin.

“Granger, Hermione!” McGonagall called out.

  
Hermione grinned and eagerly strolled to the stool, jamming the Hat onto her head.

  
_Hello Hat_ , she said happily.

  
_Ms. Granger_ , replied the Hat. _Back again?_

  
_It was Harry’s fault_ , Hermione said and the Hat gave a dry chuckle. _Anyways, how are you enchanted?_

  
_That_ , the Hat said, _is a secret. But there is a fourth year Slytherin who is trying to find out the same thing. She’s snuck into the Headmaster’s office several times in order to talk to me._

  
_Alexandra Jenkins?_ Asked Hermione. _She was an unspeakable with me. Best friends with a Hufflepuff, though I can’t remember her name._

  
_Yes, yes,_ said the Hat. _Still, I do need to sort you. Any ideas?_

  
_Not really, no,_ said Hermione. _Life’s more fun when there are mysteries to figure out._

  
_It’s nice to know that you’ve learned how to let go of control_ , said the Hat. _You were so scared. You needed to reassurance of control. Well, moving onto sorting. It would be boring to repeat myself, let's cross out Gryffindor. You’re still as clever as ever but Ravenclaw has never quite fit you. You’d eat the Slytherins alive. Hardworking, determined, and loyal. Yes, you’ll do well in_ “HUFFLEPUFF,” the hat screamed out loud. Hermione winked at Harry and Ron as she went off to sit with the puffs.

  
“Blimey, I never saw that coming,” said Ron as Wayne Hopkins followed Hermione to Hufflepuff.

  
“I thought she was a shoe in for Slytherin,” agreed Harry.

  
“No, the Hat wouldn’t do that to the poor Slytherins,” said Ron.

  
“I’m not so sure,” said Harry. “I mean, the Hat has got to be bored. I bet it likes to stir up some trouble every now and then.”

  
“Maybe,” said Ron doubtfully. “Oh, look. It Neville’s turn.”

  
They watched what little of Neville’s face they could see screw up.

  
“I think he’s arguing with the Hat,” said Ron.

  
“That won’t do him any good,” replied Harry. “The Hat’s a stubborn bastard.”

  
“I thought you said it gave you a choice,” said Ron quizzically.

  
Harry waved a hand dismissively. “I thought it did,” said Harry, “but it was really just amused that my largest reason not to go to Slytherin was Snowflake.”

  
“Gryffindor!” yelled the Hat and the two watched Neville run off with it still on his head.

  
“Yikes,” said Harry.

  
“Poor kid,” agreed Ron and they clapped politely.

  
“We should get him in our study group,” said Harry. “He’s great at herbology and I hate plants; it’s one of the few things that Hermione can never get quite right.”

  
Ron sighed and rubbed his temples. He had a feeling the next few years were going to be a catastrophe. “Just don’t harass him.”

  
“Me? Never,” protested Harry. “Besides, I like Neville.”

  
“Malfoy, Draco!” yelled McGonagall.

  
Draco swaggered off, which looked rather trying seeing how short he was.

  
“Look!” cooed Harry. “Baby Snowflake.”

  
Ron snorted. “He hated when you called that back in the 2000s, he’s going to hate it even more now.”

  
“We’ll leave his family out of it,” said Harry. “So nicknames are fair game.”

  
“Slytherin!” yelled the Hat.

  
“That took longer than last time,” said Ron, toying with his earlobe.

  
“We should get our ears pierced,” Harry said, watching Ron’s nervous tick. “Or you might just pull your ear off by the end of the year.”

  
Ron hummed, not an agreement or disagreement.

  
“Or,” said Harry, “you could wait for Bill to take you. Actually, do you see him this summer?”

  
Ron muttered something under his breath. “I think so. Not for long, thought.”

  
Harry shrugged, “if it’s more than an hour, you could ask him to pierce your ears this summer.”

  
Ron nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, that might work.”

  
“Potter, Harry!” called McGonagall. The whispers broke out.

  
“You see him?”

  
“The one with the glasses.”

  
“He’s so small!”

  
Okay, whoever just called him small was getting socked. He tipped his head back, put on the same smirk he had seen his father use in the pensive and strolled to the Hat. Harry winked at Snape before he put the Hat on and barely had time to see the look of pure contempt cover Snape’s face before the Hat covered his eyes.

  
_Mr. Potter_ , said the Hat. _Tricky as ever._

  
_Did Hermione ask how your sentience work?_ Asked Harry.

  
_Yes, she did, so you can ask her about it._

  
_Fair enough_ , conceded Harry. _Actually, do you have a name? It’s annoying to just keep on calling you Hat_.

  
_Of course I have a name_ , said that Hat. _But that is inconsequential. Where shall I put you?_

  
_Anywhere you desire,_ said Harry. _But I would like to know your name_.

  
_Plenty of courage in you, yes, that hasn’t changed,_ said the Hat, completely ignoring Harry.

  
_You know my name,_ protested Harry. _It’s only fair that I get to know yours._

  
_And still loyal to those you love,_ said the Hat. _But your work ethic leaves much to be desired. And I must say, the years have dulled you cunning._

  
_Not really,_ Harry argued. _There’s just very little I must be cunning in order to get. And when I do get clever and plotting, I seem to double cross myself somehow._

  
_Yes, that’s always been a talent of yours,_ agreed the Hat. _But while you grown less Slytherin, you’ve certainly learned how to think._

  
_I’ve been stuck with Hermione most of my life,_ said Harry. _How could I avoid learning how to think?_

  
_But it wasn’t all Ms. Granger, now was it?_ _You’ve come to enjoy experimenting, come to love magic in its convenience and its brilliance. Well, Mr. Potter, I’ve seen where you belong._

  
_Wait a minute,_ said Harry. _What about your name?_

  
_You’ll surely have the most fun in -_

  
_I need your name!_ said Harry.

  
“RAVENCLAW!” screamed the Hat as Harry groaned. There was a moment of silence.

  
_I’m not leaving_ , he said stubbornly, _until I have a name!_

  
The Ravenclaws burst out in applause. One older student screamed to “take that, Gryffindors!” The applause and cheers died down as boy-who-lived stayed under the Hat.

  
“Maybe he wanted Gryffindor?” suggested one person and whispers, once again, broke out like a bad case of hives.

  
Finally, McGonagall pulled the Hat off of Harry’s head. “Mr. Potter!” she began to scold.

  
“It won’t tell me its name!” said Harry. “It told me it had one, but it won’t say what!” Dumbledore snorted and McGonagall glared at him.

  
“Be that as it is, Mr. Potter, you cannot delay the sorting. If you truly want to find out the Hat’s name, I suggest doing it later. I’m sure the Headmaster will be able to find the time to accommodate you.”

  
“I’ll do that,” said Harry. “Thank you, Professor McGonagall.” Harry easily went to join the Ravenclaws who gave a feeble applause, confused about the Hat.

  
“That Hat has a name?” someone asked.

  
“I mean, I guess,” someone else answered.

  
“The boy-who-lived is nutters,” despaired another.

  
“Rivers, Oliver!” McGonagall called up and the voices quieted.

  
Ron shook his head in annoyance. One normal day, full of tea and warm fires and comfy sweaters. He could cook and maybe Harry would even help. But no, Harry would most likely plot something with Hermione and a giggling Teddy. Neville would unleash some sort of plant on his kitchen while Luna and Rolf would look at each other like they had never loved anyone more. Maybe Bill and Fleur would come over with Victorie. George would come over, and while he wouldn't crack jokes in the same way he did when Fred was here, he’d laugh when they’d joke around him.

  
“Fred!” Ron whispered urgently. “Merlin’s sweet wand, fuck!”

  
Lisa Turpin and Blaise Zabini, who were the only ones left besides him, looked at him strangely.

  
“Turpin, Lisa!” called McGonagall.

  
Ron watched as she went up to the platform, but his mind was in overdrive. It was like watching Harry fight a dragon or Hermione grin maniacally over a potion: a feeling in his gut saying that suddenly, shit was about to hit the fan.

  
They were displaced in time, without Teddy to keep Harry sane. They were going to look at the ghosts of their family members each day. Hermione was in Hufflepuff with Cedric Diggory. Fred was alive at Gryffindor.

  
“Fuck,” Ron repeated.

  
“Scared the Hat won’t even know where to put you?” asked Zabini, not mockingly but also not concerned.

  
“Not really,” said Ron. “I’m scared that I’m going to separated from my idiots.”

  
Before Zabini could question what Ron was talking about, Ron was called up and sitting on the stool.

  
_And so you’re the last time traveler,_ mused the Hat.

  
_Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff_ , Ron chanted.

  
_You could do well at either house_ , agreed the Hat. _You’re clever and loyal, certainly. You’re willing to work hard and be imaginative. But your mind is strategic, always plotting the best way. Your hard work is all for your loyalty-based goal: to keep your friends safe. Really, Mr. Weasley, you aren’t a challenge. You would destroy the world to protect them, with such ambition. Love, after all, can be a Slytherin trait when it is as strong as yours; but it is rare for children to have such love. For you all are children now, with children’s bodies, magic, minds, and emotions. Good luck Mr. Weasley in keeping those two alive. I think you’ll find that your greatest help is in_ “SLYTHERIN!”


	2. A Dragon, a Princess, And a Knight All Walk Into a Bar

The Ravenclaw table was rather soothing. Personally, Harry found it quite nice. Gryffindor would always be home, but he was sure that he could find his way there if necessary.

“So, Potter,” said one of the first years, “where have you been?” He had an easy smile with dark brown hair and freckled skin.

Harry blinked at the boy. “Who are you again?”

“Wayne. Wayne Hopkins,” said the boy with a sheepish grin. “Sorry bout that. Can’t imagine my parents would be happy with it, I just got a little excited.”

Harry nodded magnanimously. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “And I can’t exactly remember what I was doing. I think I was in a cupboard, making no noise and pretending that I don’t exist. Or maybe I was doing a ritual to speak to my long dead parents. The details escape me.”

“The boy-who-lived is barmy,” whispered an older student who looked a lot like a faded photograph of a boy with pale skin, pale eyes, and pale hair.

“Okay…” said Wayne Hopkins unsurely, staring at Harry.

“And no,” continued Harry, scooping mashed potatoes onto his plate. “Getting AK’ed did not affect my brain. That was the blunt trauma. And also, I wasn’t the one who got Voldy - and please stop flinching. It’s a crappy French pun, as Hermione so elegantly puts it. - And it was my mum, and kinda my dad but mostly my mum, who killed Voldy. Blood magic with a good dash of family magic. And a few ritualistic elements, but that's to be expected with blood magic.”

“Blood magic’s illegal,” pointed out an older student.

Harry tilted his head and stared at him. “Yes,” he finally said after deciding not to bring up that the Ministry couldn’t exactly go around punishing dead mothers for saving their son’s life. He rubbed his fingers over the wood grain. Yes, Ravenclaw would be nice, he supposed. Lonely though, without Ron or Hermione. “Yes it is,” he murmured and stared at the ceiling.

It was an illusion but the stars were pretty and the sky was clear. He quickly found Sirius, the brightest star in the sky.

Harry had liked Sirius, Sirius with pretty gray eyes to match Remus’s pretty amber eyes. Sirius who had laughed and sometimes called him “James,” when looking at Harry but always met Harry’s eyes and smiled sadly and corrected himself.

Harry liked lots of things, he thought as he watched Ron get sorted, then Zabini. He liked treacle tart and mashed potatoes. He liked magic that fizzled under his fingertips and in his gut. He liked his mother’s love which warmed his body with every pulse of his heart and was fierce enough to burn his skin when it rose to the surface to protect him.

Harry even loved people, like Teddy and Ron and Hermione. He loved how Hermione’s hair could stick straight up no matter how long she grew it or how many potions she used when it was humid or she was angry. Harry loved Ron’s kindness and his mothering tendencies. The way how he’d collapse over Harry or Hermione after a day of hard work. Harry loved Teddy who was as warm as a furnace and always shifting colors.

But Teddy wasn’t here and Hermione and Ron were a table away. Harry wondered if there was a way to go home. He wondered if he should take it or try to give Teddy his parents. Harry liked thinking and he liked the stars so this was easy for him. He wasn’t sure if he could deal with the emotions that came with thinking and so the stars held it at bay.

  
  
  
  


Hermione Granger had many virtues, but was not without faults. She left her socks and mugs of cold tea everywhere. Books were stacked on the dining room table and left open and unfinished. She hated losing with a burning passion and occasionally made a potion while drunk. She was snappish and when frustrated she tended to cry and ignore what was right in front of her. Hermione Granger was human. She made mistakes. She had faults.

Before Hogwarts, Hermione could count all her friends on three fingers. One was her teacher, the other was her babysitter, and the last, if she was being honest, was imaginary. She got along with her parents too, of course, but they were her parents, not her friends. Friends were different. You ate lunch with friends, hung out and talked and did homework with friends. Friends were special and not-parents.

It was her own fault, her friendlessness. She had been disdainful of people who couldn’t match her intelligence, rude to people with hobbies she dismissed as juvenile. She had looked down at children for being children and had then wondered why no one liked her. Well, she hadn’t wondered why. She had expected them to grow up and apologize to being mean to her and then ask her for help with the homework.

Harry and Ron had been a breath of fresh air, children that she had grown up and matured with. In some gruesome way, they had almost become the same person. Where Voldemort had made Horcruxes and ripped his soul apart, they had learned each other so well that they might have very well sewn their souls together. They certainly had given each other parts and thirds of themselves.

So Hermione had expected to be okay in yellow and black, with warm faces and friendly smiles and a unity in their house that seemed more like a woven tapestry then Gryffindor’s shield of oneness. She was not okay. She was eleven and once again staring at children to whom she had to prove her worth, prove that she fit in, that she was magic too, and that they needed her.

“I’m Hannah Abbott,” said a girl with bright, sunshine hair. She was holding hands with Susan Bones, who a slip of a girl that hadn’t grown into her sharp angles. Hermione knew what it felt like to be in a body that didn’t quite fit. She didn’t know if she trusted these children with happy smiles, though. She wasn’t sure if she knew how to act like them, how to smile and laugh and giggle like them. But they soon enough they were looking at her expectantly, waiting like sharks who had tasted blood.

_The show must go on_ , thought Hermione.

Hermione smiled brightly, showing all her enthusiasm and letting herself glow like a light bulb. “I’m Hermione Granger. I’m a muggleborn and may not be aware of some things, so I hope you don’t mind explaining them to me. Of course, I won’t be using you. I’ve read ahead in all my textbooks and I practiced a lot of the spells so I think I’m pretty up to date,” she said and swallowed her panic of being a child and being alone and the memories her birthdays year 2 to year 4, when she stopped throwing them.

But Hermione was fine. She was a big girl. She had Ron and Harry. She just wished they were all in the same house, sneaking into Harry’s bed and quietly talking and dreamlessly sleeping like they did after the troll incident.

  
  
  


   

Ron Weasley was a pureblood. The Weasleys were purebloods. They had a seat, not that his father used it, on the Wizengamot. His mother, while loud and loving and emotional, was a Prewett. When Great Aunt Lucretia let Great Uncle Ignatius retired Percy was going to get their seats since Charlie had declined them and Bill was already the Weasley heir. Percy had spent his life trying to be good enough and couldn’t wait until he turned seventeen to see if he was accepted as the next Prewett head.

So yes, Ron was a pureblood and he knew the intricacies of high society just as well as Draco, even more since after the war Harry and Hermione had dumped talking to purebloods onto him. Not that he minded. High society was easy. Just dangle something shiny and valuable in front of them and they were as easy to move as chess pieces. Of course, they’d try to take advantage of him too. That was politics and he had to get good quick, else he endanger everyone and everything. So he was glad Hermione and Harry has given their duties in politicking to him. He had credibility as a pureblood healer who had helped win the war and the mind to use it. Not to mention both Harry and Hermione had no tact. Well, none that he knew of. They’d ruin his game with their bluntness.

Not that it was a game. One of Hermione’s muggle authors had said “all the world's a stage”, and Dumbledore believed people to be chess pieces in his board. But he was wrong. People had feelings and cherished things that they wanted to protect. They had lives and hopes and dreams. They weren’t pawns to sacrifice without thought. They weren’t characters with real development or thoughts in their empty little heads. They were people and Ron respected that. He just loved Harry and Hermione more than his respect ever extended.

So when Ron sat, he sat across Draco. He would play their games, perfectly and without flaws. He would protect Harry and Hermione.

“Well met,” said Ron precisely, sitting with his back straight and using his height to loom. It was childish, yes, and brutish and would never win him points in the real world but, well, this wasn’t the real world and Ron doubted Draco would know better.

Draco sniffed. “Well meet,” he said, “for a Weasley. How one of you got into Slytherin is beyond me.”

Ron grinned, all teeth and promises. “I earned it,” he said, amusement coloring his words. “Weasleys have always earned what they get. There aren’t any silver spoons dripping with honey and privilege for the poor.”

“Ooooh,” said Parkinson sarcastically. “Weasley thinks he belongs in Slytherin! What a joke. Like any blood traitor wearing robes like that deserves Slytherin.”

Ron’s grin grew. He and Hermione had tried for days to do it after they had seen Harry’s wide, shark-tooth, Cheshire grin. “I take it that because of my political status none of you want to board with me?”

“Of course,” Draco snapped, young and naive.

“Then I’ll take the single room,” said Ron silkily. “There’s an uneven amount of boys in our year so I know there is one. And if none of you wish to board with me then there’s no other choice, is there?”

Draco and Parkinson stiffened. Nott sighed and rubbed his forehead. Zabini snickered, amusement clear even without his body relaxed and his face bored. Greengrass and Davis looked Ron over. A few older years looked interested but said nothing. Ron just continued to smile, small and smooth and silky and not nearly as dangerous.

  
  
  


   

It came as no surprise that when Ron entered the Room of Requirement, Hermione and Harry were already there.   

They both had a mug of hot chocolate, though Harry’s had a small mountain of colorful homemade marshmallows. Blankets and pillows were strewn across a large daybed creating a nest which Ron quickly climbed in.

“The Dursleys were worse here,” Harry started, staring down into his mug. “It was weird. One minute I was fine, the next I was falling asleep and into this body’s memories.” He wrinkled his nose. “I didn’t like it much, the soul-fusion.”

“Neither did I,” said Hermione. “It was worse here. Back home, I always did really bad at school before Hogwarts. Well, not bad. I scored all hundreds on tests. But I didn’t do homework, didn’t care about the kids in my grade. When I got to Hogwarts I was so scared. What if they kicked me out if I wasn’t good enough? And suddenly all those feelings came back but a hundred times worse. Because I cared in muggle school, I had wanted them to praise me. But they didn’t. But here, in wizarding school with people like me, they’d praise me for my accomplishments, right?”

Hermione looked rather lost, Harry looked quite small. So Ron swallowed his memories of jealousy and smallness. These two needed him, he could be big enough and good enough for them. So what if he wasn’t head boy or Gryffindor Quidditch Captain? He was Ron Weasley, the most sought after Healer in Europe, Wizengamot lord, and part of the trio that brought down Voldemort. Ron knew who he was, he was the one who was here to look after Harry and Hermione.

“Don’t worry,” he said grabbing their hands. “We’ll steal you from the Dursleys. Well, we’ll cement the blood-protection then we’ll steal you from the Dursleys.”

Hermione smiled weakly. “I don’t remember the exact ritual, but I do remember the book. We can find it in Knockturn.”

“Exactly,” said Ron nodding. “Hermione remembers because Hermione’s brilliant. The best of us. Our smartest third. She is better than enough, and she’s our friend. And Harry will tell us something archaic and completely unnecessary in one of his over complicated and completely, brilliantly, stupid plans and we'll all go along and it will work. I’ll hate it. And we’ll protect Harry from the Dursleys and Voldemort and Dumbledore’s meddling and Snape’s bullying.”

_Because he’s the most delicate of us_ , went unsaid. They all understood it. Maybe it was the abuse, maybe it Voldemort’s horcrux ripped from his head but something was irreparably broken in Harry. So they had to protect Harry. Because would get angry, blowing up with incandescent rage. Dead things would rise and shuffle towards him. Hell, Fawkes was known to come to Harry’s side.

“And we’ll always need you,” said Hermione with a soft smile.

“Because Ron will always be our knight in shining armor,” added Harry with a teasing grin and sparkling eyes.

“Then you’re our princess!” laughed Hermione.

“And Hermione’s the dragon,” said Harry happily. “Hoarding knowledge and breathing fire.”

   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this jumped around a little but I promise that future chapters will even out. Either way, please leave kudos and comments!


	3. One Part Crushing Anxiety And Two Parts Heartfelt Desire For Friends

Neville Longbottom was trying very hard to pretend he didn’t exist. He had woken up early, come down to the Great Hall early, all so that he could find his classes and blend in. He quietly put some bread, sausages, and eggs onto his plate and looked around.

Neville was down early for the Gryffindors. While he had seen a few older-years scratching away at papers they had forgotten and one group get up in muggle-clothes and leave for the lake, there were no other first years and only a handful of older students.

Neville was already here and saw little use in leaving until Professor McGonagall handed out schedules so he ate slowly and rubbed the remembrall around in his hand. It was usually red but since it didn’t tell him what he forgot, it was also fairly useless. Not that anyone had notice its uselessness in the beginning and so Neville had formed the habit of playing with it whenever he was nervous. Occasionally, it wouldn’t fill up with red smoke. Neville had originally found relief in the empty remembrall but over the years of seeing red, it made Neville feel like something was off. So when Neville had taken the remembrall out and it was clear, he had felt his stomach drop.

Something bad always happens to Neville. Usually, it's forgetting something. When it isn’t forgetfulness, it is something much worse. Getting pushed off of the Blackpool pier or being dangled out of windows. Bad, bad, bad things. And the remembrall was clear. Something bad was going to happen, Neville knew it.

He watched, half resigned to bad luck and half to self pity. He watched the first year Hufflepuff come in with an older student pointing things out, watched the Ravenclaws come in small groups or all alone, watched the entire Slytherin dorm march to their seats. All of Slytherin except Ron Weasley, the Slytherin Weasley.

Neville hadn’t noticed Ron Weasley was missing at first, not until Percy Weasley, who was the Gryffindor Prefect, almost stand up and peer at the Slytherin table and the Weasley Twins mutter amongst themselves and glare at the Slytherin table.

The Weasley twins had just gotten up, faces red and eyes cold when a black girl with bronze eyes and frizzy hair bolted into the Great Hall. It was the girl who had helped him find Tervor, Neville put together in scattered thoughts. Hermione Granger. Then came the Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, hot on her heels, green eyes wide and breath coming out in frantic puffs. They both bolted to the Gryffindor table, shoving past the Weasley twins and diving underneath the table, right next to Neville’s feet.

“Hullo, Neville,” said Harry Potter, folding his arms over the bench and resting his head on them.

“H- hi,” said Neville, his grip on the rememball tightening. 

“No need to be nervous,” said Hermione Granger. “Not around this one, anyways.” She jabbed her thumb towards Harry in an inelegant gesture. 

“Why were you running?” asked the Weasley twins, distracted from their plans of harassing Slytherins.

“It's a long story,” said Harry Potter.

“We dyed your brother’s hair blond,” said Hermione.

“The spell didn’t even work properly,” muttered Harry. “It was supposed to be Malfoy blond. Instead, the Weasley genes won out and it's, ya know, a very light strawberry blond.”

There was a second of silence before Ron Weasley walked into the room, perfectly groomed. He was dressed perfectly, somehow managing to wear second hand robes elegantly. His hair had been cut to look very pureblood and managed to look traditional, even in its light strawberry blond glory.

“He kinda looks like Victoire,” whispered Hermione. “It's not that terrible of a look. Victoire's beautiful.”

“Tell him that then,” muttered Harry.

Ron was walking forward, his eyes narrowed and firmly on Neville.

“Heir Longbottom,” Ron greeted easily. “I don’t suppose you saw Harry and Hermione run this way?”

“Er-,” said Neville gracefully, glancing down next to him, “why?”

Ron smiled kindly, “I think you know, Heir Longbottom. Either way, when you see them, tell them to look in the mirror.” 

With that, Ron left for the Slytherin table. The Weasley twins looked at Harry and Hermione and burst out laughing. Harry’s hair was a dark red color that almost looked like rust and contrasted against his already dark skin. Hermione’s hair color was a light purple that faded to lilac at the ends.

“Not bad,” said Hermione as she looked at the ends.

“I think it’d look better braided,” said Lavender Brown, one of the first year Gruffindors.

“I don’t know how,” admitted Hermione as she let go of the strands of hair.

“I do,” said Lavender. “My mother taught me. She’s a hairstylist and did my braids before I came. I can do yours.” 

Hermione looked up at Lavender for a minute and bit her lip. “I’d like that,” said Hermione. “We can talk about it at lunch? I have to go get breakfast.”

“Sure,” said Lavender happily.

“Bye Weasleys, Neville, Lavender,” said Harry as Hermione grabbed his hand and dragged him off.

That was the first time Neville met Harry, Hermione, and Ron. They burst into his life like a tornado and seemed to leave just as chaotically and quickly. Of course, they hadn’t really left. Neville just chose to believe they had until the next day.

 

 

 

 

 

It happened in Charms, which he shared with the Hufflepuffs. Hermione Granger’s hair was in box braids and strung with ornate bronze beads that buzzed faintly with enchantments. She sat next to Neville, quill and parchment out.

“I like your hair,” Neville said awkwardly.

“Thanks,” grinned Hermione. “I like yours too.” 

There was a pause when neither knew what to say.

“Um,” said Hermione, breaking the silence, “how’s Tevor?”

“Trevor?” asked Neville. “Uh, he’s good. Hasn’t broken out yet, anyways.”

“Oh,” said Hermione. “That’s - That’s good.”

“Yeah,” agreed Neville.

There was silence between them until Professor Flitwick came in. He called out attendance in a squeaky voice and Hermione began shuffling through the pile of books next to them. She pulled one out from the middle of the pile and Neville had to nudge her when Professor Flitwick called out her name.

Charms was very note heavy the first day and Neville mostly concentrated on copying down everything Professor Flitwick said until he saw Hermione. While she was copying down diagrams a Self-Writing Quill was writing down what Professor Flitwick said in bright blue ink. Occasionally Hermione would trace her wand over sentences or words and the color of the ink would change from black to a light blue or bright pink or some other color.

Somehow, even with her paper saturated with magic and filled with a thousand colors, Hermione’s notes were organized and even glancing at them Neville could make sense of them far more easily than his. By the time he stopped gawking Professor Fltwick had moved on and Neville figured that he had missed something important. 

Neville wanted to cry as a charmed eraser erased a diagram that he hadn’t managed to copy down. He didn’t understand this, Professor Flitwick talked too fast, and Gryffindor didn’t have tutoring. His magic barely worked under the right conditions and these were all the wrong ones. He didn’t have friends, people were already forming groups and he was in none of them, and he wanted to go home, back to his greenhouse.

When the class was finally over, Neville was blinking back tears and everyone else was packing up. Slowly he put his stuff away, trying the breathing exercises that he was taught for occlumency. Professor Flitwick was answering one of Susan Bones’ questions and leaning over her papers where she was pointing at something and Hannah Abbott. Hermione put the book she had been flipping through earlier in her bag then smiled gently at Neville before she grabbed his wrist with a surprising amount of strength and dragged him off.

“Hermione?” squeaked Neville.

“Yes?” said Hermione as she shook the hand of a suit of armor revealing a secret passage.

“Where are we going?” asked Neville as he crawled in after her.

“To the study gro - oooh,” said Hermione frowning. “We forgot to invite you, didn’t we?”

“Invite me?” asked Neville.

“Yeah,” said Hermione as she clambered out of the passageway onto a very thin stone staircase Neville had never seen before. “See, none of us are terribly good in Herbology. Harry’s the best but he hates it. So you’ll help us with that and we’ll help with other things!”

“Other things?” asked Neville as he followed Hermione down the staircase.

“I’m the best at Transfiguration,” continued Hermione. “Ron’s great at Charms and Potions. Harry’s kinda a renaissance man, he’s powerful enough and imaginative enough to basically do anything well but he’s extraordinary at Defense.”

“Ron Weasley?” asked Neville. “The one who you changed the hair then he got you back.”

“None other,” said Hermione as she stood on her tiptoes, trying to reach a lantern that was hung on the wall.

She glanced over at Neville. “You know,” Hermione said conversationally, “usually we have Ron help with that.”

“He is pretty tall,” said Neville.

“I am,” agreed Ron as he walked up behind him.

Neville started, giving a small yelp. Hermione reached into her bag and threw a book at Ron. Harry, who was standing in Ron’s shadow and looked very small, snickered.

“Hullo Neville,” Harry greeted. “Are you joining our study group?”

“Why me,” asked Nevile, in a small voice, his hand tightening around the remembrall.

“We need to collect someone from every house,” said Harry seriously.

Ron whacked Harry on the head. “Don’t worry about him,” said Ron. “We just want to be friends with you. When I asked you where they were you didn’t give them up, even though you didn’t know them. You’re brave, Neville, and loyal.”

Neville blushed and looked down at his feet. “I’ll join,” he said. “I am good at Herbology and I’ll do my best.”

Hermione grinned happily. “And I’ll go over charms! Professor Flitwick goes kinda fast, doesn’t he?”

Neville nodded and loosened his grip on his remembrall. Maybe this would be the start of something wonderful. He hoped it would be.

  
  
  



	4. Birds of a Feather

There’s a superstition in the wizarding community about twins. It wasn’t something people talked about. It wasn’t something people thought about much. It was something that everyone knew.

The twins had come quickly into the world. The had come loudly into the world. Molly had thrown back her head and screamed. She had had three children already. Percy had been the biggest. The twins hurt the most.

The twins had screamed with her. Their cries filled the room.

The twins came into the world nosily, but surprisingly, they grew up quietly. They had three older brothers. Bill had established himself as the reasonable one. Charlie was the wild one. Percy was the smart one.

The twins grew up quietly, holding hands and mimicking each other. They saw adults’ glance once and move on before looking again, looking at how their freckles lines up perfectly in mirror images.

“Fred,” called Molly and one stepped forward. He wondered how she knew he was Fred. He wondered if he was Fred.

“George,” said Bill and one stepped forward. He didn’t know which he was, just that he was more in the mood to play.

There’s a superstition about twins. About how they’re the same soul, split down the middle. Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t, but identical twins come from the same embryo. They shared each other’s magic in the womb, their slowly forming magic cores seeping energy that mixed with each other as their mother’s magic filled them. They shared each other’s breath as they came into the world screaming. Maybe they both had their own souls originally but even then, it’d never last. It would mix and soon they’d be two souls completely intertwined.

Fred and George knew this. They sat on the third step, the one that didn’t creak, and they’d listen to their parents speak. They’d listen to them worry about everything from money to how their children got along with each other.

The twins grew up quiet. Becoming loud was an experiment in making people see less of them. Pranks were a form of expression. The twins grew up quiet, then they turned loud. But they knew silence, they knew glances and holding hands and small secret smiles.

Ron was not a quiet child. Ron was awkward and gangly, honest and carefree, kind and harsh. Ron was emotional, loud. The twins knew him. Until they didn’t.

They didn’t know him when he was sorted into Slytherin. When he took off the hat and his lips were pressed into a thin line and his back was straight. They watched him from the Gryffindor table and did not recognize him.

The next morning, he walked in, strides long and hurried. Their little brother had run everywhere. Their little brother grinned and laughed and glared. His eyes did not linger on Fred for a second longer than George. Their little brother would have exploded and yelled if someone turned his hair pink, even if it was a rather nice shade. He would not have retaliated with just as complex spell work.

The twins watched him leave and then stared at Harry Potter and Hermione Granger who stared right back and laughed.

They watched them when they left, hands intertwined, Hermione dragging Harry away.

One day the twins were in the library, hunched in a nook on the second floor. Eventually they found another question so they got up, books trailing behind them, and went deeper into the library.  

It was on the fourth floor, which was mostly visited by sixth and seventh years near exams, that they found them. It was in a remodeled area, the sort of place a group could claim and eventually begin to leave things because no one else came by. This area had not been claimed last year. It was now. Ron was laying against a large bedrest pillow with Hermione opposing him, their feet tangled together. Books floated around her head like a halo and she scratched away in a notebook and her mutterings were captured by a Self-Writing Quill. Harry’s head was laying in Ron’s lap as he napped, Ron’s hands carding through Harry’s hair. Neville was the only one who hadn’t made himself completely at home and even he was relaxed in a beanbag as he jotted down notes and skimmed through large and dusty looking tomes with faint plant-looking illustrations on the cover.

“Nice place you got here,” said George as he moved forward and flopped down on a pillow.

“One of those books you got there wouldn’t happen to be Dubec’s _Theories on Transitional Transfiguration in Humans and Other Races_?” asked Fred as he threw himself over George.

The twins felt, for the most part, comfortable with attention. They got loads of it with their pranks. Two pairs of eyes on one of them, on Fred, eyes that bore deep and lingered was different. They did not feel comfortable but they still grinned in the exact same way.

“No,” said Hermione, one hand holding the Self-Writing Quill still. “I’m researching time. And space. And relativity. And parallel universe. And rituals. Ron might know where it is, though.”

“Don’t have it on me,” said Ron and he turned back to his book. His face twisted with displeasure. “And the books move here. Once you give it back to the library, it’s a pain to find.”

“Row 332.64,” muttered Harry in his sleep.

Ron nodded. “There you have it. Row 332.64.”

“He’s sleeping,” said George. Fred bite his lip.

Ron shrugged. “He needs his rest.”

“No,” George said. “He’s sleeping. A sleeping person can’t know where a book is.”

“Maybe not,” said Ron, impartial and indifferent, a stranger wearing their brother’s skin. “But a sleeping Harry sure can."

His face was almost soft, almost sweet even with its scrawniness, as Ron carded his fingers through Harry’s red hair and smiled down at him.

The twins looked at each other and slowly left. Floor three, row 30, shelf 2, the 64th book. There it was, in between a cookbook and a book on thestrals: Dubec’s _Theories on Transitional Transfiguration in Humans and Other Races_.

The twins shared a look calculating and curious. They didn’t talk, they didn’t need to. They barely needed to gesture and used something closer to a primal version of legitimacy, traveling on bridges they had strung between their minds before they had even come into the world.

Ron’s friends weren’t normal. Ron wasn’t normal. Something in the world had shifted and changed. Ron had shifted and changed, from anxious and young and eager to tired and jaded and cunning. Ron had learned to mold the world to his needs, learned how to take and take and take and give nothing back. Something had changed. Something had made Hermione Granger look like a caged beast, look like she’d rip out your throat before she’d give you an inch. Something had made Harry Potter look like spun glass and taken away his reservations, taken away his childhood, his heart, and replaced it with knowledge and killing-curse eyes.

The twins knew unusual. It was unusual for people to be more one than two. Humans weren’t hive minded, after all. The twins knew unusual, knew strange. Ron and his friends were stranger yet and the twins didn’t know what it meant.

           


End file.
